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In Search of England

“The greater the number of people with an understanding love for the villages and the country towns of England, the better seems our chance of preserving and handling on to our children the monuments of our past, which is clearly our sacred duty.” H. V. Morton

As an enthusiast of both travel and travel writing, I thought I would recommend the classic: In Search of England to the readers of these pages. I have had this little tome and prolific travel writer on my radar for quite a while now, but, for whatever reason, I had never delved into his work. Recently, whist loading my Kindle Fire for a 24-day trek across Great Britain and Ireland, I was looking for some reading material that seemed topical, apropos to my trip. I knew I would have little time for reading on the holiday itself, with all I had planned, and all the time I left open to wander and discover, and all the writing I hoped to do. But I needed something to help alleviate the tedium of airports and flights. And this certainly fit the bill.

Henry V. Morton was born in Lancashire, England in 1892. First published in 1927, In Search of England bears testimony to his love affair with his homeland. For those of us who are citizens of elsewhere, but otherwise lovers of England and everything English, the volume joins Bill Bryson’s Notes from a Small Island and the trilogy by Susan Allen Toth (My Love Affair with England, England as You Like It, and England for All Seasons) as absolutely required reading. All five books are declarations of love.

Morton’s tour is a remarkable one. Following an almost crushing bout of homesickness in the Holy Land, Morton (who was 34 when he wrote this, incidentally) asked himself why, when Englishmen abroad think of England they — even city-dwellers like himself — invariably picture green villages, hedge-lined roads, and other icons of rural life. Returning home, Morton sets out on a light-hearted and impulsive driving tour of villages, countryside, and cathedral and market towns. While the “In Search Of…” title might later become a conceit or even a cliché, in this, the first of his books to employ that phrase, he is literally in search this semi-mythical “England,” if it still exists.

A typical crossroads in England. This was taken on Dartmour in Devon.

Along the way he meets practitioners of dying arts like bowl-turners and flint-chippers, all sorts of interesting people from nobility to tramps and “wayfarers,” and a surprising number of American tourists (whose habits and slangy lingo I hope Morton is exaggerating, to save us a good deal of embarrassment). Morton’s style is rich and buttery; he writes in colorful and evocative prose. His descriptions of architecture and landscape are excellent, but it’s his ability to capture personalities and draw word-portraits that really shines. It’s this aspect, as well as his clear love for his subject, that really drew me in. This is remarkable book about a remarkable journey. A reader doesn’t need to be a nostalgia-ridden anglophile to get a lot out of it or appreciate the author’s observant eye and facile pen. But in my case, it helped.

Having traveled all over England myself, as well as Scotland, and a lesser degree, Wales and Ireland, over multiple visits, I could immediately relate to Morton’s experiences at a number of unforgettable places: Salisbury, Winchester, Land’s End, St. Just-in-Roseland, Tintagel, Basingstoke, Glastonbury, the Lakes District, Hadrian’s Wall, Durham, York, Lincoln, and Norwich. (I’m only perplexed that he apparently failed to visit so many others that I could name!)

Traditional stone cottage in Chagford, on the edge of Dartmoor National Park.

The fact that Morton made his clockwise circuit of the kingdom some 86 years ago is only evident by his reference to “charabancs,” the addition of water to his car’s radiator, and an evening’s entertainment with some isolated locals in the far reaches of Cornwall — listening to a broadcast from London’s Savoy on the wireless. (Radio, that is, to all you young-ones.) Otherwise, his experiences might just as well be contemporary.

At times, the author’s prose approaches the sublime, as this entry from Shrewsbury exemplifies:
“When I drew back the (hotel) bedroom’s curtains, the moonlight printed itself green on the floor. It ran over the bed and lay slantwise upon a grim wardrobe that stood in the shadow of the ancient oak-beamed room. A proper Puckish night, with the green wash over hill and field, a night for elfin horns and mushroom rings and strange scurryings in thicket and copse. Somewhere near, a dog, unable to sleep and not knowing why — poor little lost wolf — whimpered restlessly.”

Indiana has been my home state all my life. Yet, I wouldn’t have been able to write such an affectionate tribute to the Hoosier State as Morton delivers for the country of his birth. The fact that I, myself, could perhaps pen one about Great Britain, and England in particular, is indicative of my devotion to the place. On my occasional returns to the magical isle, my feeling on the aircraft’s final approach to Heathrow or Gatwick is one of returning home. In Search of England is a reminder why my affection runs so deep. Sitting here at my computer in my flat in Fort Wayne with the rain pouring and thunder pounding outside, I miss that green and pleasant land so very, very much.

Yours truly at Land’s End in Cornwall, the westernmost point in England.